Marriage Overboard!

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Marriage Overboard! by Christine Rimmer

Chapter One

Click-click-click-click-click-click-click. No, Gwen Bravo McMillan thought when she heard that sound. No, it couldn't be. He wouldn't… But out on deck, the howling wind and lashing rain had died down just enough that she could hear it, faintly, from beyond the arch that separated the sleeping area from the sitting room. Click-click-click-click-click-click-click. Gwen glanced at the clock by the side of the bed. Past two. She'd waited half the night for him to finish up. And at last, he'dsaid he was done. She'd hurried off to slip into something more seductive — and he'd gone right back to work. With a frustrated moan, Gwen sank to the edge of the wide stateroom bed. Why? she wondered. Why did he even bother to come with me on this cruise? The answer to that, of course, was simple. He knew if he didn't, she would never have forgiven him. With a put-upon sigh, Gwen fell back across the bed and stared up at the skylight overhead. Rain pounded the glass and the dark sky above was thick with swirling, angry clouds. Their second night out ofGrand Bahamaand a storm had come up. A squall, the captain had called it. Nothing to get too concerned about. They'd be through it come morning, on to sparkling seas, bright sunshine, pristine islands, and beaches where the sand was white and soft as sifted flour. There were 47 cabins on the 257-foot freighter-passenger ship,Annabelle Lee. The ship made a 13-day island-hopping run, along theCaribbeanarchipelago, from theBahamastoTrinidadand back again. Because of her relatively small size and shallow draft, theAnnabelle Lee could take them places mega-liners could never go. They would be anchoring off deserted beaches, docking in quaint harbors, cozying up to any number of exotic ports of call. Gwen had seen to it that she and Rafe had the best accommodations on board: the Admiral's Suite, a teak-paneled hideaway with all the comforts of home — and more. Including aquariums filled with darting bright neons and regal angelfish. And a marble sink, with hot tub to match in the bath. They even had their own private covered deck area. The whole point was to get away, just the two of them, without the kids they both adored, without the

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distractions of day-to-day life — meaning mainly, without Andrews and McMillan Architectural Design, the firm in which her talented, driven husband of eight years was now a full, and very dedicated, partner. Click-click-click-click-click-click-click. Ah, there it was again. The sound she knew so well. Beneath the slapping of the agitated waves, the driving beat of the rain, and the howling of the wind, under the softer glug-glug-glug of the aquarium aerators, she could hear it…. Click-click-click-click-click-click-click. The sound of her husband at work on his laptop. Oh, yes. For their special, once-in-a-lifetime romantic getaway, Rafe had made sure to bring along his laptop, his phone and his briefcase. He'd spent the flight toMiamiand a good portion of their one night there on the phone. On the commuter flight toGrand Bahama, the phone wasn't an option. And it didn't work aboard theAnnabelle Lee, either. But his laptop hadn't let him down. And since they boarded the ship yesterday evening, you'd think he was married to it instead of her. Rafe McMillan didn't have time for rum swizzles or lounging on deck beneath the goldenCaribbeansun. He had no time to pay attention to his wife. Oh, no. He was too busy staring transfixed at a computer screen, swept away by the preliminary drawings for his latest masterpiece. The rain pounded harder. The wind wailed a little louder. And Gwen popped up to a sitting position. She wasn't giving up for the night, not yet. She was dressed for seduction in a turquoise satin-and-lace peekaboo teddy, and she was determined to give getting her husband's attention one more try. Gwen stood. The floor shifted beneath her feet just a little as another good-size wave hit theAnnabelle Lee. But it wasn't bad. Nothing to worry about. Hadn't the captain said so? Gwen marched through the teak-framed doorway to the sitting area of the cabin. Her husband had parked himself on the sofa, with his laptop open on the low coffee table before him. He wore a look of rapt concentration on the face that still, after eight years of marriage, could cause a flutter in her midsection and a distinct desire to sigh. Damn him. His big shoulders were slightly hunched, his whole body focused, dark eyes narrowed, trained on the screen in front of him. He'd rested one fine, long-fingered hand against his sculpted mouth, while with the other hand, he pointed and clicked away with the laptop's mouse. Gwen positioned herself in front of one of the aquariums, directly in his line of vision — if he would only look up. Which he didn't. "Hmm," he said, still transfixed by the screen. And then he put both of those long-fingered hands on the keyboard.

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Click-click-click-click-click-click-click. Gwen gritted her teeth, struck what she hoped was a provocative pose — and cleared her throat. Twice. The second cough did it. He looked up. Yes! He was looking at her. He wasseeing her. She knew that kind of look, knew exactly what that warm gleam in his eyes meant. He said her name, low, "Gwen..." Intimately. Tenderly. With the promise of all manner of delights to come. She smiled, her heart lifting. And then he frowned. "Give me five minutes…" And then those beautiful eyes were focused, rapt, on the laptop screen again. It was too much. Gwen sucked in a long breath. "I need some fresh air." She hissed the words at him. Rafe waved an absentminded hand. "Just a few minutes, sweetheart, I promise…" Gwen was not going to start yelling at him. Yelling was not constructive and she would not descend to it. She spun on her heel, marched back to the sleeping area and tugged on an old pink T-shirt, a pair of white Capri pants and some tennis shoes. Then she snatched a bright pink rain slicker from a peg and headed for the door. *** Rafe didn't look up when she stomped by him. He hardly noticed when she slammed the door. But several minutes later, when he'd worked out the problem that had been nagging him, it all registered. Gwen had left. And she had leftmad. He raked his hair against his skull with both spread hands and slumped back into the couch cushions, muttering an expletive under his breath. Damn it, he'dtold her he only needed five more minutes. Right then, the ship rocked. A big wave must have hit. TheAnnabelle Lee was equipped with stabilizers. Still, it had rocked.... Rafe sat up straight and strained to listen. The storm had picked up, and picked up good. Now he really paid attention. It sounded like there was a typhoon out there.… Rafe jumped to his feet and went looking for his wife.

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He had to lean — and lean hard — against the door that opened onto the portside deck, the damn wind was blowing so hard against it. When he finally got out there, he saw no one. Just drenched decks and wailing wind, water flying everywhere, a dark, angry sky, and a tossing, endless black sea. He struggled forward, fighting the wet slap and slash of the wind, furious at Gwen for being so foolish — holding on to that fury, because, if he let go of it, he just might find himself terrified for her. He shouted her name, "Gwen!" once and then once again, but the wind only threw the word back in his face. Then, at last, he saw her. Amidships. At the starboard rail, holding on tight, a drenched figure in a bright pink rain slicker. He was less than 10 feet from her. He shouted her name again — but she didn't turn. And as the wind ripped the call from his mouth, a huge wave reared up to portside. It slapped the deck, sending water flying everywhere. So much damn water… In the deluge, he lost sight of the figure in the pink slicker. And when the wave at last receded, the figure at the starboard rail was gone. Chapter Two

Staggering and lurching, buffeted by the angry wind and soaked to the skin, Rafe fought his way to the rail where Gwen had vanished. He grabbed on and stared out over the roiling waves. There! He saw her. A splash of pink — the back of her slicker. Theback. Damn. Not good. The wave must have knocked her out. He couldn't see her face. She was making no attempt to keep her head above water. He sent a desperate glance fore and aft. Still no one in sight. Captain and crew had battened down the hatches. Everyone on board was riding this thing out. Everyone but Rafe and his wife — hisdrowning wife… The bridge was behind and two levels above him. Someone up there might spot a man or woman at the bow, but not likely amidships, not unless they were looking for someone. The damn angle just wasn't right. They wouldn't see what had happened — and he had no time tomake them see. The pink slicker kept moving away from the ship, the waves lifting and slapping it farther and farther out to starboard. Rafe worked his way down the rail, hand over hand, until he reached the nearest life ring. He tossed it over. It sailed out, a big donut on a string, and landed several yards away from the bobbing pink jacket that was his wife. Life vests! The words exploded in his brain. There were several lockers full of them — placed all around the ship. He grappled his way farther down the rail until he reached one of the lockers. He slipped the latch, flung

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it open and yanked out two vests. He got into one with a swiftness that surprised him. Then he whirled, brushing water out of his eyes, thinking,Life raft… But no. The pink slicker was moving up and down in the waves steadily off to starboard. No damn time to get to a raft and try to launch it single-handedly. He yanked out several more vests and tossed them overboard, just in case…he wasn't sure. In case he lost the one he was holding in his hand, he supposed. He stole a few precious more seconds to yank off his shoes — better without them. They'd only weigh him down. And then he climbed up on the rail and went over into the high, angry waves. He hit the water — not cold, thank God — and bobbed right up, the life vest doing its job. But the waves kept washing over him, interfering with his vision. It took what seemed like a century to locate the pink slicker — and the life ring. The two were much farther apart than before. And he was way too far from Gwen. If he wanted to reach her, he'd better start swimming. He struck out for her, in a good, strong crawl, arm over arm, thinking that it had been too long since those summers on theColorado Riverwith his father, too long since he'd pushed himself to swim hard and fast. He had to let go of the second life vest almost immediately. He needed both arms free to have any chance at all of cutting through the waves and making it to her. Rafe swam. He swam for all he was worth. Though he knew consciously that the currents were with him, it didn't feel that way at all. To him the damn waves seemed alive, battling him, pushing at him as if they would deliberately keep him from reaching Gwen. He swallowed saltwater, hacked and spat it out. And he kept on swimming. The waves went on fighting him. But he fought back, only slowing now and then to swipe his eyes clear and make sure the pink slicker was still within sight. It took too long. But then, at last, the waves gave him a boost, one lifting him high and slapping him down in a trough about ten feet from his bobbing limp goal. He struck out hard, each stroke a prayer, and finally he touched wet, pink slicker. He grabbed — and he had a handful of the jacket. She was definitely not moving — at least, not of her own accord. She floated completely at the mercy of the beating waves.… He yanked, felt wet, clinging strands. Her hair. He buried his fingers in it and he yanked again, hoping to get a yelp from her, an angry shout that he was hurting her. But she said nothing. And the waves kept on beating at them. He dragged her in by that hair of hers — hair that, when dry, was some wonderful, light-streaked color between blond and brown, hair that he'd always loved to slip his fingers through.… Rafe closed his eyes, a hard, sweet shaft of emotion piercing him. He let out a loud, animal yowl — her face and the faces of their children, Matty and Kenyon, flashing, one and then the other, in swift succession on the screen of his mind.

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No. She was not gone yet.He had a hold of her, and he wasn't letting go.They were not done yet. They would get through this and get home. He dragged her in, turning her, so her face was up. And she coughed. A damn miracle! She coughed! "That's right, that's right, sweetheart…" He held her under the arms, facing him, keeping her head up as much as he could manage it, protecting her mouth and nose somewhat from the splash of the waves. She coughed harder. He held on, held her up. He could feel her chest expanding. Contracting in spasms. She vomited. He'd never in his life been so glad to see someone throw up. "Rafe…" she croaked. "Rafe?" "Yeah, sweetheart, it's me. Breathe. All right?" She groaned, but she was definitely breathing, sucking in air and letting it out. She was okay — for the moment. In his side vision, he spotted a bright splash of orange. One of the life vests. It bobbed and bounced right up to them. He only had to reach out and grab it, which he did. "Here…" "Ugh." She coughed again, hard and deep. "Life jacket. Get it on." He helped her into it, pushing one limp arm in the arm hole, pulling it across her shoulders and guiding her other arm where it belonged, then finally strapping her into it. He hadn't realized the effort it was taking to hold her upright until she had her own jacket on and he didn't have to do it anymore. A feeling of relief shimmered through him. Which was ridiculous. The storm still beat down on them, the waves still tossed them mercilessly. But they were together. And they were both alive. And now they needed to get to the damn life ring. If they could reach it and hold on, the storm would end — sometime. Passengers would come on deck. They'd be found, and pulled aboard. Eventually. "Gwennie, are you okay?" She looked too pale, but she managed a hard, determined nod. "We have to swim — back to the ship. I threw a life ring over..." She understood, nodded again. But then her gaze moved. She was looking beyond him, back toward theAnnabelle Lee . And something happened in her face, an expression that sent a deep chill down into his bones.

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Pure despair. He turned, seeking the ship. It looked at least a mile away. "Gwen," he shouted over the wind and the pounding of the waves. "We have to try." She nodded. Her lips moved. He read her words rather than heard them. "I know." Chapter Three

They set out to swim for the ship. The sea actually seemed to have calmed a little. Maybe he was delusional, beset by desperate wishful thinking. Still, Rafe could almost swear that the rain had slacked off. But Gwen had been knocked out, had swallowed way too much seawater — and she wasn't as strong as he was in the first place. He had to hang back for her. He didn't dare get too far ahead. He could lose her again. The treacherous, still-angry waves could carry her away. He'd have to go after her. And he might not manage to catch up with her a second time. At first, she swam right along with him, giving her all to keep up. But then she started to lag. He adjusted his pace to stay with her. And within minutes, she slowed to a stop — or as much of a stop as was possible in the tossing waves. He turned back to her. And knew instantly what she had in that mind of hers. "No," he shouted. "Come on." She shook her head. "Go. Please. My fault. You go…" He sent one more glance at the ship. It looked farther away than ever. Too far — and he knew it. The damn currents were definitely working against them. Reality hit him like a hard blow to the gut. They weren't going to make it back to the ship — not together, anyway. And as far as Rafe was concerned, together was the only option. So what were their chances, then? His mind spun away from the true odds — and back around to the real point: survival. Right now, they only had to do one thing: stay alive. Ride out the rest of the storm. Somehow. They only had to live one hour, one minute, onebreath at a time, until the waters calmed. To stay afloat and keep breathing: that was the goal. If they lived till daylight, they should have at least a small chance of reaching land or being picked up by

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a boat. TheAnnabelle Lee had been scheduled to weigh anchor offConception Island,Bahamas, sometime in the early morning — which meant they were stillin theBahamas. Or at least, they should be, assuming the ship hadn't been driven too far off course by the storm. What had Gwen read to him when she was trying to interest him in this damn trip? That there were some 700 islands in theBahamas, not to mention over 2,000 islets and cays. Surely some small spot of dry land was out there, not too far away, just waiting for them. He reached for his wife. She pushed at him, yelled, "No! Go!" And then surrendered to a fit of coughing. He got her by the shoulders, shouted her name. She finished coughing. She refrained from doing more yelling and shoving. But her face remained set. Mutinous. "I can't make it, either," he said loud and hard. She opened her mouth to argue that point. He didn't even let her get started. "We stick together. We help each other stay afloat. It's the only way." She stared at him. He saw guilt and self-hatred in her eyes. "Gwen! Stop it. We survive. Together. Understand?" For a suspended moment, she went on glaring at him, her lower lip quivering slightly. And then her face crumpled. She muttered "Matts. Kenny…" so low he only knew what she said because he was thinking the same thing. "They're safe," he said firmly. They had left them with her brother, Zach, on his ranch, the Rising Sun, inWyoming. Zach had a terrific wife, Tess, two daughters, and a baby son. Zach and Tess loved each other. Together, they made a happy home. They wouldn't hesitate to take in a niece and a nephew permanently if it came to that. He told Gwen as much. "The kids will be fine. Zach will take care of them." She closed her eyes. And when she opened them again, she nodded. "All right." "Good girl." He turned her, pulled her in so the back of her vest met the front of his. He said in her ear, "Tuck your legs up. Rest." Rafe's father still ran a white-water rafting outfit inColorado. Wolf McMillan hadn't been much of a family man, but Rafe hadn't forgotten all the lessons in survival that the old man had drilled into him. His father's words came out of his mouth. "Even in warm waters, hypothermia is possible. The body loses heat faster in water than on land. And there's a lot of heat lost through movement." Gwen put up no more arguments. She drew her legs into her chest and he brought his own legs up beneath hers. They bobbed, in a sort of upright spoon-fashion, riding the waves, up to the crests, and down into the troughs. Eventually, he looked back over his shoulder — and saw that theAnnabelle Lee was no more. She had slipped over the edge of this strange and endlessly rolling watery world.

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Time passed and the storm faded away. The waves calmed. When Rafe lifted his hand from the sea, the skin was thick, puffy, and creased, thoroughly waterlogged. Rafe had left his waterproof multifunction watch on the coffee table in their stateroom, so he couldn't have said exactly how long they'd been drifting. And what did it matter, really, how long they floated, what time it was? He did have his Swiss Army knife in his pocket, the one Wolf had given him years and years ago. He'd always carried it with him and it was with him now. If they made land on some deserted spit of sand somewhere, the knife would likely come in handy, more so than any watch. The wind had died from a howling demon to a sweet tropical breeze and the endless nighttime sea had calmed. The clouds slowly cleared, the wind chasing them on, and the stars shone brighter than the stars over the city ofPhiladelphia, where he and Gwen lived. He managed to pick out the pole star, following the line of it to earth — which wasn't all that far at this latitude — and found due north. So. They were drifting west. Was that good? Who could say? They needed that island to show up on the horizon soon. Or a boat. Coast Guard, maybe. These waters were crawling with Coast Guard boats, weren't they, tracking drug runners and such? Once or twice, something bumped his legs — and moved on. Shark? Or something equally deadly? If so, both times, death passed them by. He felt Gwen sigh. Her head was back on his shoulder and her curled-up body drifted out a little, as if the sea were her bed and his shoulder her pillow. Her hair moved lazily around them, floating at the surface, sliding against his neck, clinging, then flowing free again. "Look," she said, "A gull…" He saw it, the beating double-boomerang shape against the sky — which, it seemed to him, was growing lighter back the way they had come. She said, "I read somewhere that if you see a gull over the ocean, you're near land." He hated to disappoint her. "That's a myth. Birds can fly enormous distances. And they do." She sighed again. "A myth, huh?" He made a noise in the affirmative. "Oh, Rafe," she whispered. "I love you. I'm so sorry.…" He kissed her salty temple. "Don't go there. Don't beat yourself up. It'll only tire you out and get us exactly nowhere." "You shouldn't have come in after me." He chuckled. "Too late forshoulds, sweetheart." "You know what they told us when we went through the safety drills. If someone goes overboard —"

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" — throw in a life ring and inform the bridge. But by the time I got through to the damn bridge, you would have been long gone." She said nothing. But he knew her thoughts. She was blaming herself again. "Stop," he warned, thinking that he was certain of it — the sky was definitely brighter in the east. He ran his hand down her arm. "Sun's rising…or it will be soon." She made a sound that might have been a laugh — or just as likely, a sob. "It really didn't seem that bad — the storm, I mean — when I first got out on deck. I got over to the rail. And it got worse really fast." "It happened, Gwen. We deal with what we've got." She let out a little huff of air. "Always so pragmatic." "You have called me unromantic." "I have been a fool." He smiled. "But you aremy fool.…" "Rafe?" She was treading upright. "What?" "Look." She pointed to the west. "Do you see it?" He did. It was land. Chapter Four

Excitement and relief renewed Rafe's strength. It was the same for Gwen. They started swimming once more, stroking arm over arm toward the swell of solid ground in the distance. It was farther than it looked. In too short a time, Gwen was worn out all over again. And so, to a lesser degree, was Rafe. But the current was their friend right then. In the end, they rode in on the tide, going under a few times at the breakers, but getting past them eventually. The sun had turned the whole world orange and purple behind them as they staggered together up onto the beach and collapsed alongside a high, pungent-smelling pile of sea grape. They lay there, catching their breaths, damn close to totally wasted, with few clues as to where they were — but smiling at each other like a couple of idiots, nonetheless. "Solid ground," she whispered, grabbing a handful of wet sand and squeezing it between her pale-palmed, water-wrinkled fingers. "I didn't think I'd ever see such a thing again…"

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He knew they had to get up. Find shelter from the heat of the rising sun. And water, too. Was there a freshwater source here? He lifted his head, looked off toward the edge of the beach where tall coconut palms loomed. Island, islet or cay — how big was this place? Was it inhabited? If it wasn't, they'd need to build a good signal fire. So much to find out. So much to do. And so damn worn out, both of them. Gwen had dark circles of exhaustion under those big eyes. He watched her wet lashes flutter down. Between one second and the next, she was sound asleep, her cheek pillowed in wet sand, her hair ropy and knotted as the pile of sea grape beside her. He shouldn't have, but he closed his eyes, too.... *** Gwen woke under protest as something shook her shoulder. "Gwen. Gwen you have to wake up now…" Rafe. He was the one shaking her, the one who wouldn't let her sleep. She made a grumbly sound and tried to push his hand away and burrow back down under the covers, which, very oddly, didn't seem to be there — but he held on to her shoulder and kept saying her name. And there was something wrong with the bed. It felt damp and grainy. There were those missing covers — and the sun was shining down on her, hot on her bare calves, making her feel clammy on top. She patted her own arm. A jacket. She was wearing a soggy, slick jacket… Gwen's lashes had gummed up, stuck together somehow, but she managed to force them open anyway. Her poor husband's worried face swam into focus, complete with bleary eyes and rumpled, salt-crusted hair. There was sand stuck in an oval pattern against one lean, beard-shadowed cheek. His polo shirt clung to him, crusted with salt lines, like his hair. It struck her like a blow, what had happened. Where they were. Some nameless bit of land in the middle of theCaribbean. Her whole body ached, her skin felt hot and itchy, and there was a slight throbbing above her left ear — she had hit something, hadn't she? The rail or something, when that wave washed her right off the deck of theAnnabelle Lee . She had hit something and it had knocked her out. And Rafe had been forced to jump in after her… Her face must have shown the self-loathing she felt right then, because Rafe warned, "No." And she knew he was right. Her own self-indulgence had gotten them here. She had wanted a little romance, wanted Rafe's passionate attention, wanted to be courted as he had courted her back when their love was new. Yes, that was it. For some time now, she had wanted their love to be new again. She had hungered for it, really, felt the lack of it as some black hole in the center of their marriage. And last night, she had managed to get so fed up with not getting what she wanted that she'd gone strolling the deck of a ship in a dangerous storm just to air out her anger.

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And so they were here — stranded on some unknown island, safe for the moment only because of the courage, strength, and survival skills of her husband. They were here. And there was no more room for her self-indulgences. Her throat felt awful, dry, and scratchy — and raw, too, from all the salt water she had swallowed and then coughed up. Her mouth was a hard sponge with all the moisture long sucked out of it. She swallowed, trying to draw up a little dampening saliva, and managed to croak out, "I'm okay. Really…" He gave her a smile. His lips were cracked. She put up her hand, touched his mouth and then her own — cracked and dry, like his. "What a mess," she whispered. "Come on. We need to get out of the sun." She moaned a little, squinted at the wide blue sky. "What time…?" "I'd say after ten, anyway." He helped her to her feet and they hobbled together, like a pair of very old people, up the beach toward the tall palms — and beyond. When they came to a spot well shaded by the palms and some other, shorter trees, he let her sit down again, and helped her out of her life vest, then removed his own. He told her to rest there, out of the sun. "What will you do?" "Look for water." She pushed herself to her feet again, using a tree trunk for support. "I'll come with you." He shook his head. He was checking the creases and pockets of her life vest. "You're beat. Sit back down." "You don't even have shoes. It has to be dangerous for you to be walking around in the undergrowth." She still had her tennis shoes on, salt-crusted and soggy as they might be. "I'll be careful." He dropped her vest and picked up his own. "You'll get your feet cut up, and you know it. Some creature might take a bite out of you." "Can't be helped." He pawed through his own vest, then dropped it next to hers. "Look what I found." He held up two small mirrors and two identical whistles on strings. "Most life vests will include a whistle and a mirror — for signaling potential rescuers," he announced, as if reading from a survival manual. He smiled, cracked lips and all, boyish in his pleasure, making her think of their son. "These mirrors could turn out to be priceless. And not only for flagging down rescue vehicles. It's reasonably easy to start a fire with one — beats rubbing sticks together any day of the week."

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She said, "I'm not staying here while you go off alone." His dark brows drew together. "You're looking obstinate, Gwennie. Your chin is sticking out." "We'll work together." "For someone who's dead on her feet, you are way too damn determined." "I'm going with you." They looked at each other for a long time. She thought she had never loved him as much as she did at that moment — let alone, never understood how very much he loved her. She said, tenderly, "What about the whistles?" "What about them?" "What arethey good for — I mean, now that we're out of the water?" "Hmm," he said. "Well, for signaling each other, at the very least. Here." He held one out to her. She took it, looping the string over her head, lifting the heavy, lank ropes of her hair to settle the string against her nape, then bringing the whistle to her mouth. Before she blew on it, she hesitated, giving him a questioning look. He shrugged. "I guess blowing it might be unwise. There could be trouble nearby, ready to jump us. Smugglers, maybe. Or somebody else up to no good." "Let's think positive," she suggested. "There could also be some nice people just waiting for a sign to come racing to our rescue." He grunted. "Fair enough. Blow." She did. The sound was loud, clear, and quite piercing. The grove of trees seemed all the more silent as the whistle died away. Rafe said, "Well, I don't see any nice people." "No smugglers, either." And right then, there was a rustle in the underbrush. Rrreow? "My God," said Rafe, as the thin gray creature emerged and began rubbing around Gwen's ankles. "It's a damn housecat." Chapter Five

Gwen bent and scooped up the cat that had come to her whistle. "Well, what do you know? What are

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you doing here?" The cat purred and ducked under her hand, begging to be petted. Gwen obliged. "Tame," Rafe said. Gwen scratched the furry guy under his pointy little chin. "That's good, right? It means there are probably people living here, somewhere. Or at least a water source, right?" Rafe peered more closely at the cat. "Probably yes to the water source, at least. But the animal could have been abandoned here by some boat or other. It looks pretty scrawny." Gwen had to admit Rafe was right. The poor thing's ribs stuck out. He suggested, "Put him down. See if he leads us anywhere helpful." Gwen did as he instructed. The cat plunked to a sitting position at her feet and looked up at her hopefully. "Thanks a bunch, guy," muttered Rafe. Then he was looking at Gwen again. "You're sure you feel up to a little exploring?" She nodded. Firmly. "All right, then. Let's go. We don't have much in the way of gear. Might as well just take it all with us." It was already growing quite warm, so Gwen tied her slicker around her waist. They put their life vests back on. Rafe hung his whistle around his neck and they each took a mirror. They set off under the trees, moving directly away from the beach, along what seemed to be a trail, though who or what had made it, Gwen hadn't a clue. And she was too thirsty and too tired to waste her energy asking her survival-savvy husband how he had decided which way they would go. The skinny gray cat followed them, sometimes slipping up ahead, sometimes dropping back to take up the rear, sometimes weaving through the bushes to the right or left of the trail. Every time they came to what seemed like a fork in the trail, Rafe would gather stones and make a crude arrow on the ground, pointing back the way they had come. He explained the first time he did that that he wasn't too worried about getting back there anyway. It was east, more or less, since the sun had risen that way. They could and would get back, to build a signal fire a little later in the day. But that would take time, to gather the fuel for it. Right now, their primary goal had to be finding water. They hadn't been walking long — maybe ten or fifteen minutes — when they heard a buzzing sound off to the east. An airplane. Gwen's heart leapt in frantic, gleeful hope. They got out their mirrors and they stood in a clear spot, flashing the bright squares of reflecting glass, using the sun's rays to make twin signals. But it was no good. They heard the engine retreating before they ever actually even caught sight of the aircraft. Desolation made her mouth taste drier than ever as the droning hum fade away to nothing. But she was not going to show it. She closed her eyes, sucked in a long breath — and kept her shoulders high.

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Rafe shook his head. "What?" she demanded. "Maybe we should have stuck near the beach. Out in the open, we have a better chance of being seen. And maybe I should have at least taken time to try hunting down enough big rocks to writehelp in the sand." She saw the shadows in his eyes right then. It was a huge responsibility, assuming the lead, making the decisions about what actions to take and in what order. A wrong choice could cost them their lives. Reassurance was required. "We'llbe out in the open," she reminded him. "As soon as we find water." He made a wry face. "You seem pretty damn sure about this." "I am. Trust me. I know what I'm doing here." They both chuckled at that. And then Rafe put up a hand. "Listen." They stood silent, straining their ears. The gray cat sat between them, looking from one to the other and back again. "Birds," she whispered. "I hear birds. And little rustling sounds in the underbrush." Rafe had his head tipped to the side. "Wait here. I'll be right back." He turned and set off into the brush. Gwen did as she was told, trying not to think of what kinds of big snakes or angry insects might be lurking among the tangled tree roots, just waiting for the chance to sink ugly fangs or nasty pincers into her husband's poor bare feet. Not two minutes after he left her, he called her name. "Come on! Over here!" She ploughed into the bushes, skirted around a big outcropping of gray rock — and saw her husband at the same time as she saw the creek that tumbled out of the side of a small, clear pool. He was kneeling beside the pool, scooping up handfuls of the crystalline water. He tasted it and he grinned. "Fresh," he said, his eyes alight. "Fresh water, Gwennie. Come on. Have a drink." Gwen did not need to be told twice. She raced for the water's edge, threw herself down on the bank and lapped the cool, wonderful water straight from the stream. Chapter Six

They drank their fill. And then they swam in the little pool, wearing their clothes, rinsing the salt from them as they swam. Gwen thought she'd found heaven, floating in that pool, the silky, lovely, clear water sliding over her dry,

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salt-raw skin. She massaged her fingers all over her scalp, rinsing the salt away and easing the itchiness that it had caused. Keeping her head in the water, she did her best to comb out her hair with her fingers. Gwen wanted to take off her clothes, to float naked in the tiny blue pool while she waited for her things to dry. Rafe said that sounded like a great idea — later. But right now, they needed to get back to the beach, lay their signal fire, and get a rudimentary camp set up, including getting a smaller fire started that they would tend until they were rescued. Judging by the direction of the current, he said he thought the creek would come out somewhere near the shore. That meant they might find a water source closer to where he thought they should make camp. Since they had no containers to carry water in, the closer the fresh water, the better. Now that her thirst had been slaked, Gwen realized she was starving. She told Rafe as much. And he laughed. "We'll worry about food later. The human body can go for weeks without it, in case you didn't know." She faked a look of horror. "I hope we're not going to have to waitthat long to eat." He grunted. "So do I." When she rolled her eyes, he added, "Don't worry. We'll have lots of fun later, trying to crack open coconuts and seeing what kinds of crustaceans we can dig up on the beach. And anyway, from what I understand, the Bahamas get a lot of traffic. There should be planes going by all the time — and boats. Not to mention whatever rescue efforts they mount within the next few hours when they're bound to realize that we're not in our fancy stateroom or basking on our private deck." He reached out, lifted her heavy, wet hair off her neck and put his warm hand there. Then he pulled her close. She lifted her mouth and he kissed her, the sweetest, deepest kiss. A kiss that soothed her spirit every bit as much as the clear waters of the pond had soothed the parched skin of her aching body. "We're going to be fine, Gwennie," he whispered against her parted lips. "Oh, Rafe. I know we are." They returned to the beach, which didn't take long at all, since they hadn't come that far. Rafe found the end of the creek, trickling onto the beach perhaps thirty yards north of the big pile of seaweed that marked the spot where they had washed up. They set to work gathering driftwood, fallen branches, dry seaweed that had trapped itself among the roots of the trees that rimmed the beach, anything that would burn. Rafe said they needed both long-burning fuels, like the driftwood, as well as leaves and green branches that would make a lot of smoke. The signal pyre would have to be set just so, in order for it to go up like a torch when it was lit. As they gathered their materials, they explored. They found a sort of one-sided cave — a deep, wide groove in the rocks — far enough up the shore that high tide shouldn't be a problem. That would be their campsite. Rafe built their campfire there, under the overhang of the rocks where it would be protected, digging out a bowl shape in the sand, placing a rim of rocks around the edges and laying the fire within. Then he went out into the sun, laid another tiny kindling fire, and used his mirror to focus the sun's heat until the kindling caught. He got a nice, long stick going and carried it back to light their campfire. They laid the signal fire several yards from their camp, high up on the beach, where the tide wouldn't get to it and where they could reach it quickly from camp when the time came to light it. Once all the collecting of fuel and preparing of fires had been done, they gathered stones — enough to do what he

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had suggested earlier: WriteHelp across the beach in the sand. By the time the stone SOS was done, the sun hung low over the back of their island, turning the never-ending sky to swirling magenta fire. The gray cat — Gwen had taken to calling him Stewie, after Stew Cat in the famous Theodore Taylor young adult classic,The Cay — stayed near them for most of the day, resting in the shade of the overhang at their campsite, coming out to explore the pyre of the signal fire when they finally had it all ready to light. Once all the rest was done, Rafe whittled a hardwood stick to a sharp point and showed her how to break open coconut shells with it. He did several of them. One or two had fresh, sweet milk inside, which they drank, but the meat was tough and flavorless. Rafe said they could use the shells as containers. They wouldn't carry a lot, but they were better than nothing. "Wait here," he commanded, rather curtly, she thought, after they'd cracked open a dozen or so of the coconuts. So she waited. Rafe disappeared into the trees. She hoped he knew what he was doing. But she was tired and still quite hungry, in spite of the coconut milk she had drunk. And she didn't feel up to chasing after him and demanding to be allowed to help him do whatever he thought just had to be taken care of right then. He was gone for way too long. At least an hour passed, maybe more. She cleaned the tough meat from the coconut shells and tended the fire, staring into it, glad for its cheery warmth against her face, thinking of her children, telling herself that shewould see them again — and soon. Eventually, Stewie appeared from out of the rocks behind her. He was carrying something in his jaws. As he drew near, she saw it was a very small, very dead bat. He set it down before her and sat back, looking up at her. "Thank you, but no. You go right ahead," she said, a part of her thinking that she shouldn't be so hasty to refuse such an offering. But she was far from starving. And they'd certainly find better food than tough coconuts tomorrow. She didn't have to claim a skinny cat's even skinnier bat. Stewie picked up his prize and turned away from her. He carried it a few feet away, then stretched out in the sand to enjoy his meal. Gwen looked into the dancing flames of the fire, wondering how long it had been now since Rafe had left, hoping he was okay, wishing he would come back. And as if her longing had conjured him, he appeared. She spotted him walking toward her along the beach. He was carrying something. She got up to greet him. When he came into the circle of the firelight, she saw he had a big dead lizard — and an even bigger dead snake. "Could this be…dinner?"

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He gave her a crooked smile, then got out his old Swiss Army knife and began cleaning the kill. *** They cooked the meat and ate their fill. There was even enough for Stewie to join in. The meat was wonderful, light and tasty. Gwen had never realized how delicious a dead reptile could be. Rafe told her he'd measured their island, been to both ends and across to the other side. He estimated it was about two miles east to west, maybe two and a half north to south. As far as he could tell, they were alone here. Once they'd finished the meal, they strolled along the beach to the creek to wash and to drink some more of that delicious, delightful fresh water. Then they returned to camp. They stretched out by the fire with their lifejackets for pillows and they looked at the stars and promised each other they would be home soon. Rafe's beard was rough against her cheeks when he kissed her. She didn't care about the roughness. She felt the soft wetness beyond his lips and that was so good. She opened her mouth to his seeking tongue and eagerly abetted him as he undressed her, urging him to undress, too. The turquoise teddy was wrinkled and salt-streaked. He told her it was beautiful. They made love there, by the fire, in the sand. And when he came into her, she looked up into his dark eyes and she thought again, in a shattered sort of way, of what a fool she had been, in wanting their love to be new again, wanting it to be green and untried and fresh. No. Their love was not new. Their love was strong. And deep. And so true. Their love endured. As they would endure, here, on this mound of sandy land in the middle of the Caribbean Sea. Endure to make it home, to hold their children, to pamper and coddle their children's children, to grow old. Together. She said his name on a glad cry. He gave hers back to her. They went over the edge of the world as one. *** Gwen woke in the morning feeling stiff and cranky. She was absolutely certain she had sand in every crack and crevice of her body — and Rafe was gone. He appeared a few moments later with a fish he had caught with an improvised spear made out of a long stick whittled sharp at the end. His feet were hurting. He tried to pretend they didn't bother him, but she could see the cuts and scrapes for herself, could recognize the careful way he walked, so different from his usual confident, smooth stride. He assured her that in a few days the skin would toughen up — not that it would matter, since he had a feeling they would be rescued very soon now. "They know we're missing by now, probably have known since yesterday noon or so at the latest. They'll be searching. And now, we'll be ready to give them a nice, smoky fire to find us by."

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They cleaned the fish, cooked it and ate it, sharing with Stewie, of course. Gwen teased the cat that he'd grow positively fat if he didn't watch out. Once the food was eaten and the fire tended, Rafe suggested they go to the pool, to clean up a bit. Gwen hesitated. Considering the condition of his feet, she really didn't think he ought to be tramping around any more than he absolutely had to. He waved a hand at her. "Come on, it's not that far. And a swim will do us both good." She gave in and went with him. The walk, after all,was a short one and the cool water would be soothing to their various aches and pains. But they never made it. At the edge of the trees, Rafe let out a sharp cry and jumped back. Gwen looked down in time to see something slim, dark and sinuous slither off into the bushes along the trail. Chapter Seven

"Snakebite," Rafe growled through gritted teeth, his face contorted with pain. He dropped to the sand to examine the two tiny puncture wounds on the arch of his left foot. "Hurts like hell," he muttered, then he shot her a glance. "Did you see the snake?" She blinked, her mind suddenly a blank, refusing to take in what had just happened. "Gwen. Did you see it?" She nodded. "I…yes. For a split second." "What did it look like?" "I don't know…not very big. Dark gray…almost black." He was studying those little wounds again. Already, the skin around them looked puffy, and darker, like the beginnings of a bruise. "Some kind of viper, I would guess." "Viper?" she repeated, sounding stupid, feeling terrified. "Something…poisonous, you mean?" He shot her a glance. "Rattlesnakes are a kind of viper, though not the only kind. The bite of a viper type of snake is painful, and they leave twin puncture wounds, just like this." "Oh," she said. She was thinking how calm he seemed, how she wanted to scream. But she didn't scream. "What…" Her throat closed up. She swallowed, to make it open. "What do we do?" He slipped his little red knife from his pocket, flipped out a blade and made four swift slashes, littlex s over each of the wounds. "Don't try this at home," he advised dryly. Blood welled up and he squeezed at the flesh around the cuts, encouraging the flow. "Something for a tourniquet…" he said, wincing against the pain.

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"My shirt?" "Great. I'll need a strip long enough to tie around my leg." She yanked off her shirt and tore at it with her teeth, getting the rip going, and then tearing about a four-inch strip in a circle around the hem, stopping to tear again with her teeth at each seam. "How's this?" "Perfect." She handed the torn strip to him and then tugged the remains of the shirt back on over her head. He tied the pink fabric around his leg good and tight. "Slows down the movement of the venom," he explained, then managed a wry grin and qualified, "If properly applied." She stared at him, and then said what she was thinking. "You're socalm …" "Not that many people actually die of snakebites, Gwen," he said. "This is only one bite, most likely no great amount of venom was injected. It's not near any vital organs and it didn't hit an artery. And I'm not a child. Children are more likely to die of snakebites than adults because of their smaller size. Chances are, I'm going to get sore and sick and I'll run a fever. But I'll get through it." "Is that… a promise?" "Damn right it is." She wondered if he really meant that, if he was as sure he would survive this as he wanted her to think. But then she decided if he wasn't so sure, she didn't want to know anyway. He told her that the less he moved, the better — slowing the circulation of the poison was the most important thing he could do. That meant staying calm — and staying still. She helped to make him as comfortable as possible, right there at the top of the beach, under the shade of the palm trees. She went and got their life vests for him to rest against and he said that the downward slope of the beach was just right. He had his feet toward the waves, below the level of his heart. "Water?" she asked. "Are you thirsty?" He admitted that he was. She hurried off to grab some coconut shells and fill them with water. He drank two shell's full and then he loosened the tourniquet and retied it again, explaining that he wanted to slow down circulation, not cut it off completely. He patted the sand beside him. She sat. The wound had swelled more, was turning an ugly purple. She tried not to look at it. He said, "Don't forget the campfire. We have to keep it going, so we'll have flame when we need it to light the signal pyre." The pyre was about 15 feet away, between them and the little half cave where they'd made their camp, all ready and waiting for the sound of a plane overhead — or the sight of a boat out there in the blue,

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blue waves. "I checked it when I went to get the coconut shells," she told him. "It's low, but with a good layer of coals. I'll put more wood on it in a little while." "Good." Stewie appeared from somewhere in the bushes behind them. He meowed a greeting, then he stretched out in the shade a few feet from where they sat. For several minutes, neither of them spoke. The sounds around them rose up louder, the songs of gulls wheeling overhead and the rhythmic whoosh and slap of the waves against the shore. Beneath it all was the low, never-ending sigh of the sea wind. "Itis beautiful here, Gwennie," he said, very softly. She looked at him, and she made herself smile. "Well, this trip didn't exactly turn out the way I had it planned." "You can't deny it's been…exciting." "You're right. It has been. A thrill a minute. I think I've had enough excitement, though. I think I'd like to go home. See my children. Sleep in my own bed…" "With me, I hope?" He raised a dark brow at her. "Always. You know that. Always with you." He smiled then, a smile both tender and a little bit sad. "Gwennie…" She touched his arm. "What?" "I want you to know that I have learned form this. Seeing you the night of the storm, face down in the ocean…" He shook his head. "You keep blaming yourself, but the blame's not really yours. I did drive you to it." "But I shouldn't have —" "Shh. Listen. I'm trying to tell you I know I was wrong, that night and a lot of nights before that. I'm trying to tell you that if we make it through this —" She put her hand against his chapped, dry mouth. "Not if.When. " He nodded, caught her fingers and kissed them. "Whenwe make it through this, I'll put my work aside when I say that I will. I'll make time for just the two of us and for our family, time where Andrews and McMillan Architectural Design will not be allowed to interfere." He looked deep in her eyes then. "I love you, Gwen. More than my life." "Oh, Rafe. I know it. And I love you." ***

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There was nothing much Rafe could do but rest, remain calm — and wait out his own reaction to the snake's venom. Every once in a while, he would untie the tourniquet, then tie it back up again. And then, after what he told her he thought was about an hour, he took it off completely. It had done what good it could do. She got up now and then, to tend the campfire, to bring more water, but mostly she stuck by his side. They talked a little, and they were quiet together, watching the waves tumble up to the shore and slide back again, leaving the white sand glittering wet under the tropical sun. She knew he was suffering long before he let it show — suffering both from the pain of the bite and from increasing nausea. He grew feverish. She took the discarded improvised tourniquet, wet it with cool water and bathed his sweating face with it. By then, he'd lain back against the sand, moaning and tossing, unable to get comfortable. She tried to get him to stay still at first, remembering what he'd said about slowing down circulation. But she couldn't really keep him still, and anyway, the poison was fully in his system by then. Moving around probably wouldn't hurt him any more than he was already hurt. He threw up. She held his head and bathed his face some more, urged him to drink a little — and then had to hold his head while he threw up again. She managed to coax him along the beach a ways to a stretch of clean sand. And that was all she could do — hold him, dribble little sips of water between his chapped lips, clean him up when his poor stomach turned itself inside out. And constantly remind herself that he was going to pull through this, he was going to be all right, that few people died from snakebites, Rafe had said so. Rafe had promised. He had promised he would be all right…. Rafe lay, his head in her lap, moaning softly, and the ball of the sun had risen almost to the center of the sky when she heard it: the droning hum of an airplane engine somewhere out over the endless sea. Chapter Eight

Yes! Gwen could see it. A plane — a small one, far out over the water, but coming this way. The drone of the engine was faint, but getting louder. As gently as she could, Gwen eased Rafe's head to the pillow of his life vest. Then she leapt to her feet and took off at a run for the campsite. A number of dry kindling sticks waited where Rafe had left them, ready to set afire and carry as matches out to the pyre. She grabbed several, stuck them into the red-hot coals, her mind instructing in a singsong chant, Be calm, take your time, do it right, make it count…. The sticks caught. In the sky, the plane seemed to be growing larger, the engine sound deepening, getting louder….

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Gwen forced herself to keep the sticks in the coals for precious seconds longer, to be certain they'd burned hot enough that they would not go out as she carried them to the pyre. Finally, praying they would stay lit, she pulled them free and started off. Overhead, the plane droned louder. Gwen raced along the beach, carrying the flaming sticks, one hand out in front as a not-too-effective shield against the wind. The flames didn't last — but the ends were still glowing, still red-hot. Gwen reached the pyre, shoved the sticks in at the base. The plane, at that moment, was directly overhead. Surely the pilot could see her, see the pile of wood and brush, see the word HELP in stones across the sand. She knew it was probably pointless to yell and jump about, but somehow just couldn't stop herself. She shouted, waved her arms, screamed, "Down here! Help! Down here!" She even stuck her whistle in her mouth and blew for all she was worth. The plane seemed to dip toward her. And then it swung upward again — and flew on above the palm trees, disappearing from sight. "No!" she screamed. "No, you come back here! You come back here right now!" All at once, the embers at the ends of her kindling sticks caught. With a roaring rush, the pyre burst into hot, burning life. Gwen stood where she was and watched it, watched the flames lick and rear high, watched smoke pour up into the clear blue sky, listened for the plane to circle back around. But she waited in vain. The sound of it had faded to nothing.

She had failed, hadn't been quick enough, hadn't beenready enough. She cast a glance at Rafe, so still now in the sand, and all she wanted was for it to beher lying there, sick and helpless, forhim to be standing here now by the burning pyre they had created together, standing here, well and whole and certain of what he should do next. Hopelessness was a living, hurtful force inside her. Tears streamed down her cheeks. And then a voice in her head, a voice that sounded very much like her husband's voice, commanded her, "No." It was his voice she heard, but her own that actually said the word aloud. She could not afford this. No self-indulgence. She was the one standing, the one in charge now. And she would not, under any circumstances, surrender to her own despair. The fire was burning, the smoke was going up, thick and dark. The pilotwould see it. Hewould circle back around. And right then, as she was telling herself that it was going to happen — it did. She heard the hum of the engine coming on again, roaring up louder — coming back. Coming back!

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And then, out over the wide sea, she saw it: a small boat, a rescue boat. It was speeding straight for them, a white wake churning out in a stream behind. Overhead, the plane dipped, rose up, circled and came back. The boat raced toward the beach. The miracle had happened. They were rescued. They would be saved. She ran to her husband and found him unconscious. She took his head in her lap and she whispered, "Oh Rafe. You'll be all right now. I promise you. You'll be okay. Help has come…" *** Six months later… The sleek gray cat followed at her heels as Gwen checked on her children. She eased open the door to Kenny's room first, tiptoed across the floor and then pulled up his covers, tucking them around him carefully, not wanting to wake him. Then she moved on to Matty's room, repeating the same motions, smiling to herself when her mouth popped open in a big, loud yawn. The cat was waiting at the door for her when she emerged into the hall again. He accompanied her down the stairs to the office room at the front of the house. Rafe was sitting at his computer, lost in the images of some new project he was working on. She smiled to herself and started to back silently out the door. But he must have heard her. He turned in his chair and held out his hand. She went to him. He laid his palm on her round belly. "How's the island baby?" "The island baby is just fine." She bent down and kissed him, tasting the sweetness beyond his lips, thinking how much she loved him, thinking that it was the very best kind of love: a love good for a lifetime. A love that endured.

The End